“Well, if you know them, you know that they are good and free companions.  Why do you not apply to them, if you stand in need of help?”

“That is to say,” stammered Milady, “I am not really very intimate with any of them.  I know them from having heard one of their friends, Monsieur d’Artagnan, say a great deal about them.”

“You know Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried the novice, in her turn seizing the hands of Milady and devouring her with her eyes.

Then remarking the strange expression of Milady’s countenance, she said, “Pardon me, madame; you know him by what title?”

“Why,” replied Milady, embarrassed, “why, by the title of friend.”

“You deceive me, madame,” said the novice; “you have been his mistress!”

“It is you who have been his mistress, madame!” cried Milady, in her turn.

“I?” said the novice.

“Yes, you!  I know you now.  You are Madame Bonacieux!”

The young woman drew back, filled with surprise and terror.

“Oh, do not deny it!  Answer!” continued Milady.

“Well, yes, madame,” said the novice, “Are we rivals?”

The countenance of Milady was illumined by so savage a joy that under any other circumstances Mme. Bonacieux would have fled in terror; but she was absorbed by jealousy.

“Speak, madame!” resumed Mme. Bonacieux, with an energy of which she might not have been believed capable.  “Have you been, or are you, his mistress?”

“Oh, no!” cried Milady, with an accent that admitted no doubt of her truth.  “Never, never!”

“I believe you,” said Mme. Bonacieux; “but why, then, did you cry out so?”

“Do you not understand?” said Milady, who had already overcome her agitation and recovered all her presence of mind.

“How can I understand?  I know nothing.”

“Can you not understand that Monsieur d’Artagnan, being my friend, might take me into his confidence?”

“Truly?”

“Do you not perceive that I know all—­your abduction from the little house at St. Germain, his despair, that of his friends, and their useless inquiries up to this moment?  How could I help being astonished when, without having the least expectation of such a thing, I meet you face to face—­you, of whom we have so often spoken together, you whom he loves with all his soul, you whom he had taught me to love before I had seen you!  Ah, dear Constance, I have found you, then; I see you at last!”

And Milady stretched out her arms to Mme. Bonacieux, who, convinced by what she had just said, saw nothing in this woman whom an instant before she had believed her rival but a sincere and devoted friend.

“Oh, pardon me, pardon me!” cried she, sinking upon the shoulders of Milady.  “Pardon me, I love him so much!”

These two women held each other for an instant in a close embrace.  Certainly, if Milady’s strength had been equal to her hatred, Mme. Bonacieux would never have left that embrace alive.  But not being able to stifle her, she smiled upon her.